The Friend Zone Episode 11: The Ukrainian – Part 2: The Bang-Over
Posted on November 4, 2019
The Friend Zone
(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) There is a relationship dimension beyond that which is known to the penis. It is a dimension of dumbfounding and senseless scenarios. It is the middle ground between a man’s happiness and despair, between his hope and hopelessness and it lies between the pit of his fears and the summit of his desperation. This is a dimension of ignorance and nonsense. It is an area which we call…the Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)
By: Terry Allen Cummings on 06/08/12
Brought to you by: Cous’n Cumm’ns Entertainment
Featuring: The Ghost of Rod Serling
Episode 11: The Ukrainian – Part 2:
Ghost of Rod Serling: Quitting time for loneliness. Time for romance now. Time for love. Time for a cool drink on a porch with the object of that love. Time to kiss her under the quiet rustle of leaf-laden trees that screen out the moon. And underneath your newfound devotion, behind the worshipful eyes of passion, hanging invisible over the summer night, is a horror without words. For this is the stillness before the storm. This is the eve of the end; and unbeknownst to you…this is The Friend Zone.
As time passed, I held out hope that The Ukrainian would text me during the week; but she didn’t. What did it matter, I asked myself. I didn’t really know a bitch any damned way. Big whup; so a hundred and five pound Ukrainian blonde gave me a hand-job in the passenger seat of her husband’s silver Mercedes SLS, who was more than likely in an Eastern European Mafia? (That may be the SECOND most amazing sentence I’ve ever composed.) I was over it. Ah, who was I kidding?
I always feel like I should be a ‘chaser’. I mean, no romantic comedy film would EVER work out if some dude didn’t chase a woman who said ‘no’. Not in a rapey way, don’t get reactionary; you know what I mean. I just always feel like I was lucky to make it to the theater, I’m not gonna start jostling for front row seats. I mean shit, no woman I’ve ever wanted, CHASED me; that shit must be nice. I see guys who do this and they look like assholes; so a woman tells me she’s out, well then I guess I’m out too. But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.
As the frustration brought on by ANOTHER failed attempt at a relationship mounted, I began becoming short with people, misplacing the anger I felt at myself and dumping it on the rest of the world, and it just got worse from there. It’s been a long time since I’ve let a woman dictate my feelings, but I was genuinely depressed at the thought of not having been able to pull this one off. I really liked The Ukrainian.
Then it happened. I got the text. “Can we please be going back to the way it was?” I wanted SO desperately to ignore that text, to let sleeping dogs lie and NOT dig my emotions farther into the trench…but I’m weak people…WEAK I tell ya, you gotta help me!
Secretly though…(Whispering) between you me and Rod Serling over here…I KNEW that girl was gonna call me! You can’t RESIST the Cummings, ladies! (Singing to no particular song:) Cum-on-ya, cum-on-ya, cum-on-ya; YEAH! Do the CUMMINGS! I am everything and anything! I’m a baaaaaaaaad mutha “SHUTCHOMOUF!” (endzone dance, backflip, car explosion, fireworks).
I told The Ukrainian to call me; when she did, I asked her what she meant by that. The way it was when she gave me a handjob? YES; we can DEFINITELY go back to the way that was. I realized that I was beginning to miss the symphony of her accent, where before I couldn’t stand an accent. She told me that she didn’t want Monday night to be just a booty call, and the only reason she spurned my advance was because she didn’t want me to think she was a slut. She liked it when I told her to come over and fuck me (phrased demurely: “I like when you tell me to come fuck you, Terry.” oofa), but when she got there, she realized that she wanted more than just fucking, and that confused her. “I am very satisfy in my life right now and not looking to be committed into a relationship, we could be physical and only friend but you are already more to me.” Fuck, the Friend Zone is truly a GLOBAL phenomenon. Hell, it’s probably Universal. I imagine that somewhere out there, Cokulon from the planet Dicktar is sitting back confused and befuddled after having one of his twelve dicks sucked by Clitula from the planet Vaginater, when she said to he/it; “I really like you as a FRIEND Cokulon” (yes, in my imagination Eastern European women have more of an accent than aliens).
“So I still have a chance?” I said, shoving my foot in my mouth until it came out my ass and wiggled its toes at me. “Yes, you have always had chance. Stop being so nice to me Terry, and we could be good friend.” I love it when she says my name like that.
So I thought to myself “You’re an adult Terry, people have relationships like this all the time…Can you live with it?”
The answer? No. But in this instance? I was gonna try like hell to live with it. I mean, this would be a sexual boon on par with men landing on the moon, the invention of the microchip, or the Berlin wall coming down. This was a moment in vaginal history which would firmly cement my cock in the annals of ugly man greatness. This would be a story that my ugly grandchildren would someday tell THEIR ugly grandchildren and so on throughout the future. Friend Zone? Here I come!
As we talked on into the night, The Ukrainian told me that she hadn’t fucked since her husband left her because she was waiting for him to come back. Then she told me that besides not liking condoms, she can no longer get pregnant. Wait, WHAT? If I wasn’t sure before, I was damned well sure now. This woman is TINY, I think I’m being generous when I say 5’2”, which is great because her small hands would make my average dork look like a fucking softball bat, and I gotta admit…that was part of the attraction from the beginning. Couple that with NO condom and the possibility of her pulling me close to her at some point and whispering heavily into my ear “cum inside me”, and fuggetaboutit! I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more in my life; but the thing about desire is that it can be wholly selfish, and I often find that in my selfishness; there’s always a cummupence.
I already made plans to go out with Cous’n Cumm’ns that Saturday night to see The Avengers; having read a story of mine about Cous’n Cumm’ns, The Ukrainian wanted to come along. She decided to meet us at a restaurant near the theater. Cous’n Cumm’ns picked me up, and I gave him a hundred dollar bill because I knew he’d pay for dinner on his credit card anyway. Normally, Cous’n Cumm’ns always pays, but if I have a woman coming out with us, I’ll carry my own weight AND hers; I mean, we have the kind of relationship where I can feel comfortable with him footing the bill for me, but although he probably WOULD do it, I just feel it would be…inappropriate to ask him to pay for my date…or friend…whatever.
How a woman can come up with a different outfit every time I see her that makes her look MORE attractive than the last time, is just fucking beyond me. The Ukrainian (I wish I could tell you her name, because it’s just as beautiful as she is.) met Cous’n Hemp’n and I at the restaurant, wearing an orange shirt, tight jeans, and a matching orange gypsy scarf on her head…what can I say? The chick digs head gear. She was also wearing super high heels which made her walk like she was floating on air. Cous’n Cumm’ns jaw nearly hit the floor when she walked in, and he later told me “She’s GOTTA have a cock; that’s the ONLY explanation for her going out with you.” Sensitive guy, my cousin. To be honest, ‘cock away’. I’d suck a cock if it’s surrounding looked like The Ukrainian? what am I, trying to impress YOU? The three of us talked, ate, and drank and to my surprise, Cous’n Cumm’ns didn’t embarrass me at all. Until the bill came. Cous’n Cumm’ns made a comment about always having to pay for everything without acknowledging MY contribution. In fact, the bill was only fifty fucking bucks and The Ukrainian and I had only had 3 bloody Marys between the two of us. Was this mother fucker hitting on my date…lady friend…whatever the fuck? What was I gonna do? Lean over to her, raise an eyebrow, and say with a sly grin on my face “You know…I paid for that.”, the thought of doing that gave me douchechills…so I let it go.
After dinner, I hopped in The Ukrainian’s Mercedes as The Cuz followed us to the theater. Cous’n Cumm’ns had already gotten us three tickets to the show, and as The Ukrainian went to the bathroom, I asked him to give me two of them…and he fucking refused. “Ed, you already made it look like you paid for dinner, now gimme the tickets so I don’t look like a cheap ass” Like a 12 year old he played keep away from me as I grabbed for them, hopping in the air and bouncing around him trying to grab them away like a nerd trying to get his milk money back from a bully.
Just then, my friend Gordon showed up and offered me the distraction I needed to occupy Cous’n Cumm’ns as The Ukrainian came out of the bathroom. I’m convinced Gordon doesn’t have the ability to show emotion, so he was unfazed by her beauty. I asked her if she wanted anything from the concession stand, and to be honest I was kinda hoping she’s say that she wanted popcorn because I’ve always wanted to try that popcorn trick from “Diner”. You know the one; you cut a hole in the bottom of the popcorn box, stick your dick through and when she gets to the bottom? You both get a surprise (yes, extra butter).
Anyway, after the movie, The Ukrainian offered to drive me home. On the way we talked, and she let me in a bit deeper into her life. She also told me that she had to be up early to go to church and it was already 2:30 in the morning. I was fine with that because to be honest with you, between the uncomfortable seats in the theater, and feeling a bit gassy from the food and booze earlier, I wasn’t up for more rejection anyway. I decided to take the evening for what it was; a nice night filled with good food, a good movie, and great company. There would be time for rejection later.
About a week later to be exact.
The Ukrainian and I made tentative plans to go out the next Thursday. I agonized throughout the week as to what we’d do. I wanted to get her flowers and take her someplace nice for our 4th outing; and THIS is why it’s difficult for me to be in the friend zone. I’m ALWAYS looking to, not so much impress a woman, as show her a good time. I want a woman to go out with me and think “shit, I wasn’t expecting THAT.” When I called her on Wednesday to ask her what time she’d like to go out, she told me “This is why I am not having a boyfriend. I don’t like to making plan, I will call you tomorrow when I am ready.”
Geez, wanna throw THAT in my face again? I wasn’t calling to ask her which banquet hall we should have our wedding reception in for fucks sake, I just wanted to know if I should eat dinner after work or would we be going OUT for dinner? Throwing a time stamp on the beginning of our evening would just be a nicety. After not hearing from her all day on Thursday, I cleaned the apartment and got myself ready for when and IF she would call…although not with NEARLY the amount of enthusiasm I did on previous evenings; but still dancing to the Thong Song as I showered.
She called me at 9:30 and asked if I’d still like to go out, and of course, I was like “Yeah…I guess. Have a few…y’know…IMORTANT things to do…but I guess that could be maybe ok.” Although I should have had my head examined. In my mind, all day, I pictured the two of us going out to dinner; talking, and then coming back to my place to watch a movie, during which I would eventually yawn while stretching, surreptitiously putting my arm around her, waiting patiently for her to reach the bottom of the popcorn box on my lap. Man, do I have an ancient view of what a date should be or what? Next I’ll be asking her to wear my letter and eventually getting us separate beds like Lucy and Ricky.
Anyway, that fantasy was dashed when she told me she wanted to get high and stay in her neighborhood. She told me to meet her at a bar in Elmwood Park. Now, without pulling out and unfolding a map in front of you like a lost tourist, it would be hard to illustrate to you just how far that would be. I mean, it’s easy enough to get to, as It’s right off of Harlem Avenue, which I live 2 blocks away from. The problem is that it’s 40 minutes down Harlem Avenue.
But as I’ve said before, I’m always down to try something new, and although I would be shocked and disappointed at one point in the evening…the evening itself didn’t disappoint at all.
This parts gonna get a little heavy guys, just a warning.
I drove down Harlem and parked near a Latino nightclub on Grand Avenue, where she asked me to meet her. Like on our previous date, I went in and had a drink. At this point I just didn’t give a fuck if she was drinking or not…I NEEDED a drink. This nightclub was beautiful but for the life of me I can’t remember the name of it. There were deep black sofa chairs set up in circles around dark mahogany wood tables. The lights were dim and an 8 person salsa band was setting up on a small stage to the right of the entrance. Hispanic men wearing silk shirts and brimmed hats talked with beautiful Hispanic women in tight dresses, ready to dance the night away.
I sat at the bar watching what looked like a Miami nightclub in the ‘80s unfold before me…when Irena walked in. I’m even gonna break my ‘name’ rule; she doesn’t care, that’s MY rule.
I want you to forget, for a moment, ALL of the ass kissing I seem to have done in these tales about Irena. Forget if you will the beauty I’ve described in her body…her face…and how her outfits complimented those features; forget it all and marvel for the first time at what I saw that Thursday night at 10:32 PM at the Club Babaloo or whatever the fuck, in Elmwood Park.
Irena came into the nightclub, gliding elegantly 5 inches above the floor as she walked effortlessly on high heels. She wore the tiniest denim mini skirt I’d ever seen, which was more of a belt than a skirt. Above it, a tight white sleeveless silk shirt clung to her perfect figure, and a white and purple scarf adorned her neck, wrapped around it several times and hanging low to cover her tits. It was a perfect mixture of shocking exposure and withheld delights. She wore no hat this night, exposing the black roots on her head that flowed down into the most beautiful blonde hair I’ve ever seen. Every eye in the club turned to her, including the band. Is there ANY place I could go with this woman in which she wouldn’t be the most beautiful woman there?
I turned into a cartoon wolf of desire as she walked across the dance floor to meet me at the bar; a desire that threatened to expose itself like an old man, naked but for a trench coat on a subway car. On what planet is THIS woman walking towards ME. My years of lovelorn misfortune evaporated as my winning lottery ticket came blowing in on a breeze. Usually I can curb my desire, tell myself “it’s only a chick”, but in this case I wanted her so bad that I could feel my stomach doing summersaults, I could hear my heart quickening in my chest as every other sound in the room faded out and Irena came towards me in slow motion; my mind capturing that image to compare all future dates to. Tonight, I was going to fuck this woman and she was thinking the same thing of me.
There was no doubt, no hesitation and no need to speak. I would fuck her in the bathroom of this nightclub if I could, in an alley outside the bar, in my car, hers, I didn’t care…all I knew is that I wanted her in that moment more than I wanted anything in any moment throughout my time on this planet. Friend zone, fuck zone, girlfriend or enemy; tonight, I was willing to be that man outside of Exit with a cigarette in his mouth if it meant getting closer to Irena.
She flowed into my arms, and looked up at me with that smile “Are they watching?” she melodied. I nodded my head and kissed her, right there in front of everyone. I. did. not. give. a. fuck. who. saw. it. I’m being serious folks: audible gasps. Then the salsa band started to play and the club went back to business. I took Irena’s hand and led her to a chair at the bar, and when she crossed her legs on the bar stool, about 90 percent of her ass was exposed to the dance floor in front of us. Heads snapped as men AND women did double takes, not quite believing the ferocity and boldness in which she carried herself, even while sitting. She was high, which just made it easier to make her laugh; “Joke, joke, self deprecation, joke…COMPLIMENT!” I told myself….”Stick to the formula.”
I ordered her a drink and we laughed for the next hour. The band was great with the bongos and the cow bell and the what not; and Irena fit in perfectly to the atmosphere and ambiance of the bar. Her laughter filled the air like pixy dust between songs as I stuck to the formula. She made sexual overtures to me and at one point even showed me the tiny pink underwear she was wearing just underneath that tiny skirt. People…believe me when I tell you I was ready to fuck her ON the bar. This was in the bag, a sure thing. I just needed to make sure I didn’t fuck it up. I forced myself to say all the right things, to SHOW her how much I was enjoying her company, to not think about being in the friend zone. I stayed IN the moment; future be damned. I wanted this woman and tonight I would give her not just the best of me…but ALL of me.
After watching the movements of people mambo-ing it up, and feeling the beat in my soul, I led Irena to the dance floor where we dance-fucked and laughed until the sweat glistened on our brows. Slow songs, Salsa, Labamba, we were all over that shit and it was great.
3 songs in, Irena told me that she wanted to go outside and smoke a cigarette. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and asked her to wait for me as I strapped my hulking boner down to my left leg, which forced me to goose step as I came back into the bar like John Cleese in the Institute of Silly Walks. We smoked outside, and Irena moved her body to the sound of the music coming from inside the bar. I couldn’t help but admire her; not just her beauty but her spirit, her freedom of expression, and as always…her laughter. How much longer must I continue this farce? To pretend my longing to feel her against me wasn’t a lecherous pervert standing between us? My desire to bed this woman threatened to explode like a volcano. Trying to stop objectifying her, I brought myself back down to earth by asking her questions. When we talked on the phone earlier, she told me that she was having a bad day, and as we talked outside the nightclub; my desire nearly bursting through me, I asked her if her day had gotten better.
“This is wonderful Terry.” she told me, coming close to me, putting her hand on my chest, and balancing herself on one leg with the other playfully kicked back like a nurse kissing a soldier in old post World War II ticker tape parade photo. “My morning was SO bad; I had bang-over…” I didn’t really pay attention to what she said after that, as I cocked my head to the side wondering if I heard her correctly. When she stopped talking, I asked “Bang-over? Surely you mean HANG-over?” Irena laughed again and marijuanaly turned around in a circle, as she came around to face me, she said, VERY non-chalantly “No, is bang-over. This is where I am fuck all the night before.” At least that’s how I heard the definition; and then she strutted back towards the bar.
The bouncer opened the door for her and as she walked back in I stood outside with awe rippling across my slack jawed face; I looked up into the unforgiving night sky and screamed “KHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN! (khhaaannn! Khhhhaaan!)” while shaking my fists in the air.
WHY did you have to tell me that? My once proud boner disintegrated and turtled itself up inside of me. I can’t fuck her now! I JUST CAN’T! I imagined her pussy was all red and swollen from the pounding some Ukrainian unibrowed calling card salesman had given her the night before. PLUS she doesn’t like condoms and sperm stays inside of a woman for up to 5 mother fucking days! I wasn’t gonna fuck her using some other guy’s Ukrainian semen as a lubricant. AHHHHHH! My dreams were dashed because let’s face it, there was probably a veiny cock imprint on her vaginal wall like someone thumbed a number two pencil into play dough.
How many times had she USED that term, I kept wondering to myself. And how prolific in her ‘bang overs’ must she be if I’VE never heard of it? I have my OWN dictionary of terms with words like this in it, I’ve researched and travelled the globe to come up with funny and unique sexual plays on common words and in ALL my travels, in all my communications with communist dictators and terror cells TRYING to get them to open up some of their unique brand of sexual humor, I’ve never come across ‘Bang-over’. (By the way, terror cells do not have a good imagination for this, the only entry THEY had for the Cumminary was “The Car Bomb” which is apparently when you cum on a woman’s berka in a car. Entry into the Cumminary was denied) The only explanation had to be that she fucked SO much, that she had to coin a term to describe how she felt in the morning. I’d not only been out-vocabularized by a foreigner, but outwitted, humiliated, and dejected all in the same moment.
Part of me was relieved that she told me because if she hadn’t? I might have been down there lapping up sperm like a kitten with a bowl of milk. Part of me was horrified that she told me…because I SO wanted to fuck her…oh God, I SO wanted to…(head hung low in hands sobbing)… somebody, please help me.
Well, we went back inside and I turned off the desire like a light switch, looking upon Irena as just some hot chick in a bar, like I would have if I didn’t know her, instead of the hottest chick to ever walk up to me in a bar. Of COURSE something had to be wrong with this. Mother fucker. I stopped drinking and I walked her to her car at around 1:00. She smiled, flirted, played with her hair, and showed me her underwear again as I made uncomfortable small talk with her. After five minutes of pleasantries I said fair well, showed her how to fist bump because frankly; unless I had a gallon of Purell, I didn’t even wanna touch her. Then I went home to beat my dick like it owed me money.
Irena NEVER said to me that she hadn’t fucked anyone since her husband left, I just assumed (Or heard what I wanted to hear) that as I tried to interpret her jumbled vocabulary. She was NOTHING if not incredibly honest with me from the beginning about NOT wanting to be in a relationship, and I understood that as my penis frothed at the mouth. Now that I look back on it, what I think she said was “I no longer being the way I was” which must mean that she used to be slutty, but she didn’t want to be slutty anymore…I don’t know; this is why I don’t like accents. I’m not trying to interpret your bullshit.
This is the problem with the friend zone; when a woman puts you in there, a man will spend hours even days sulking and trying to decipher the meanings behind a woman’s terms and phrases. We’ll try to reason with ourselves that an innocuous statement means more than it actually does or that a meaningful and straight forward statement like “I have bang-over” isn’t as bad as it sounds. We do this even with women who speak perfect English.
So that was it. Irena texted me a few times; said she was kidding about the bang-over, said that she could feel me go cold toward her after she told me that; and told me that in Europe this in no big deal.
Well, you’re in America honey, and if John Wayne wouldn’t put up that that bang-over shit, I sure as hell won’t either. I’m nobodies cuckold. You don’t fuck a guy the night before you go on a date with me, that’s not a ‘friend’ in any relationship.
Every time she sent a text, I deleted her number from my text and call history. Why bother? Better to put this out of my mind and chalk it up to another funny story for YOU to read about, and another dreadful experience of missed opportunity for ME to live with.
Ghost of Rod Serling: Mr. Terry Cummings, a romantic in a world of fast food sex, a product of a bygone era in which men were men and treating a woman with respect was the honorable thing to do. Mr. Terry Cummings who has found out through trial and error –mostly error- that with all its sexual ambiguity, with all of its devotional deprivation, it may well be that this is as good as it’s going to get. Love notwithstanding, sex has much to offer. Tonight’s case in point…in The Friend Zone.
Deleted Scene 1
After an hour…there’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box. That’s the first thing they teach you at clown college, in fact I think that’s the clown college motto which adorns their hallowed gates on a bronze plaque: “There’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box” – Yukko The Clown.
Deleted Scene 2
However, a woman who SAIS she’ll fuck me, but just wants to be my friend gives me hope because I have to think that if I bring the ruckus to that ass…she’ll stick around.
Deleted Scene 3
I mean hell, Jesus was the friendliest mother fucker EVER according to Catholics, but he wasn’t JUST FRIENDS with Mary Magdolin…he was fucking her.
Deleted Scene 4
if I were to fuck a woman as a ‘friend’, I have a fear that I’m going to whisper in her ear as I’m kissing her neck “I can’t imagine wanting a woman more than I want you right now”, and she’s gonna put her hand on my chest, push me back and say with her brows furrowed: “whoa buddy, just friends; remember?” I mean, what’s the line?